Tell your friends, and come back soon.

September 2011

September 29, 2011

“We’ll meet our soul mates, nail them and never call them again,” the character Barney on “How I Met Your Mother.”

“I love my wife. She asked me to leave. I can’t live without her,” the new character Walden played by Ashton Kutcher on “Two and a Half Men.”

Though attractive, Barney, who fancies himself a pick-up artist extraordinaire, is not wildly successful with women because he’s an old school player. That’s one of the running jokes in this sitcom. Women have come a long way on TV and in life; and Barney does not quite grasp the rapidly changing times.

The sitcom generating the most interest this year is, of course, “Men.” Charlie, played by Charlie Sheen before the debacle, was a pick-up artist. He had it all: money, the Malibu beach house, a handsome face and, it is implied, the ability to satisfy a woman. In the season opener, Charlie is dead. Walden—Ashton Kutcher—walks up to the beach house after failing to drown himself in the ocean because it was too cold without a wet suit. Alan, Charlie’s brother, offers a dry towel and a shoulder to cry on.

Walden does cry—on shapelier shoulders. He’s a billionaire, as handsome as, but younger than Charlie, emotionally immature in a different way, “hung like a horse” in his pixilated nude scenes, and desperately wanting his wife/life back. Offering pick-up advice, Alan takes him out for a drink, but Walden can’t stop thinking about his wife. His tears touch two beautiful babes at the bar. He ends up having sex with both of them while Alan “masturbates and cries himself to sleep.”

The three men—Charlie, Walden and Alan—illustrate the basic truths about modern culture: Desirable women hook up with men who have what they want; and that usually includes money and looks. The women who can be picked up by guys like Alan (with somewhat better social skills) are the low-hanging fruit. In one way or another, something is wrong with them. They’re bruised.

Popularized by Neil Strauss in The Game, pick-up culture, or the seduction community, began online where nerdy guys were looking for advice on how to meet women. Some of the advice was straight-forward, not demeaning. But many advisers taught men how to pounce on women’s weaknesses, even sap their self-confidence, rendering them easier prey.

Earlier this year I was engaged by Frederick Ebel, an aging self-styled pick-up artist to write a guide for younger men on how to pick up women and juggle multiple sexual relationships. Soon he confessed that he is a foot fetishist with an equally strong desire to be spanked. When I wouldn’t fulfill his fetish needs, he sexually harassed me publicly, threatened me and finally fired me, killing his project. Of course, he refused to pay what he owes me. (I’ve instructed my attorney to sue him on behalf of my young heirs after my death. See Dying, The End Game, part one which links to the other posts in the series.)

In an excerpt from our last interview, Freddie—who prefers to be called Rick—claims he has five concurrent sexual relationships with more women “waiting in the wings.” He is particularly proud of his ability to pick up women on subways and commuter trains. After telling me about the woman he met on the LIRR train after leaving his “main” lover’s home, we had the following exchange—

Freddie: “She suggested sharing a cab. I said, ‘I can’t. Believe me, if I could get out of this business lunch, we’d be spending the day together.’”

S: How many women have you met in the past six months?

Freddie: “Dozens.”

S What is the difference between meeting on a train, at a coffee house, at a cocktail party?

Freddie: “At parties, you have a common link and time to find out about that person. A coffee house or bar is a more relaxed atmosphere, again more time. On public transportation, you have limited time. You have to focus and hammer it. Opportunities are everywhere, but you have to be present, engage. I size up women very quickly and spot their weaknesses. Every woman has weaknesses.”

S: “How did those dozens of meeting turn out?”

Freddie: “Two or three connectors, one or two repeaters with relationship potential. I could add two to the repertoire every six months, but I don’t have time. I tried to break off with four of the five—keeping the most geographically convenient relationship—but they won’t let me. They say they want more of me, but they will take whatever I can give them.”

S: Really?

Freddie: “I don’t lie to women; they know I won’t be monogamous. Monogamy is what they want from me. They all want it. I can’t find everything I want in one woman so how could I be faithful?

“My main woman won’t spank me. I’ve offered to bring in a woman who does it right to teach her, but she refuses. In a loving relationship, you should be willing to do anything to please your partner.”

A piece of work, isn’t he?

After writing this, I called Michael (M—the AssMaster, see category on right), a man who loves women, and asked him:

Can you think of a book, non-fiction or novel, that shows men how to treat women well?

Silence.

Finally, he said, “No, but a small percentage of men buy into pick-up culture philosophy as compared to the number of women who buy into theories on managing men and relationships—in books like The Rules.

“I can’t think of a book for men, but I recommend a film, ‘Hitch’ starring Will Smith as a matchmaker who teaches men how to be seen by women—how to get past the barriers to knowing them that women put up.

“And I would tell men: Don’t treat women as badly as they treat each other.”

copyright 2008-2011, www.sexyprime.typepad.com; PARTIAL reposts only permitted with link back to original article on SexyPrime

September 28, 2011

Kimmie ends her long-running serial, "Dirty Little Secret," in a satisfying way. If you've been waiting for the heroine to take a good look at this unappealing man and seize control of the situation--you'll be happy with how she does it. Personally, I got annoyed with this gal. Then I realized that Kimmie is teaching us a lesson: Women do give away their power to men who are not all that.

Have you been there? This is the conclusion for you.

Next week Kimmie returns to the short erotica format she does so well. But remember: all the chapters of "Dirty Little Secret" stand alone. You don't need to start from one and work up. Dip in anywhere and enjoy a quickie with a dominant man you wouldn't want to be your dinner companion.

Here's Kimmie--

Dirty Little Secret, the end

She loved the feel of his fingers gripping her leg. The heat of his body against hers on the cozy booth seat and the light tickle of the table cloth on her naked thighs turned her nipples into tiny points. The danger of how close he was to being as nasty as they had ever been together made her blood pulse so hard that she could hear it. She loved the idea of how far he might try to push her.

She didn’t love the audience.

The threat of him getting nasty was one thing, but the reality of going any further in the dining room of a restaurant was another. She didn’t know what he was planning at that moment, but she knew that there was no way she could sit at that table any longer. If they were somewhere else, anywhere else, she thought, a private place where she could concentrate on her desire instead of the hundreds of other eyes in the room...

Eyes sparkling, she put her hand on top of his, on top of those thick fingers that were squeezing the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh. She leaned into him and whispered, “Meet me in the ladies room.” She pushed his hand off her leg and tugged her skirt down. Grabbing her bag, she stood up and walked toward the restrooms.

She felt as daring and reckless and nervous as she had that first night when she’d asked him if he was going to kiss her. Would he follow her? Would he not? She didn’t know and it didn't matter. She’d either have a bathroom stall to herself or would share it with him – either way, she was going to enjoy herself.

She walked to the large stall at the end, gently closing the door behind her. She wiggled out of her panties and stuffed them in her purse. The silky swish of her skirt against her bare bottom gave her chill . She swayed back and forth as she stood there waiting, letting the material glide lightly against her skin. She ran her hands up her stomach to her neck, squeezing her breasts in the V-shape between her upper and lower arms. How long should she wait?

The main door opened. She heard heavy footsteps across the floor and then softly, her name.

She locked the door behind him. She didn’t know how much time they had before their food arrived at the table. She slid his pants down to his knees and pulled his cock into her mouth. He leaned back against the wall, holding on to the metal handrail. It took only moments to get him as rock-hard as she wanted. She reached one hand out for the condom, rolling it on with her mouth.

She stood up, hiking her skirt to her waist. She grinned wickedly at him, noting his flushed face with satisfaction, and turned, showing him her ass. He reached out to grab it, but before he could get there, she backed up into him hard, grinding it into his crotch.

She moved against him, relishing the feel of his erection rolling back and forth over her ass. She reached one arm behind her, pulling his head over her shoulder so his ear was close to her lips.

“Fuck me.”

She threw herself forward, clutching the handrail on the opposite side of the stall. He grabbed her hips and slid straight into her. Oh god yes, that was exactly what she wanted. She let go of her skirt so she could reach down between her legs. He slammed her so hard that it was all she could do to hold on to the bar with one hand and her clit with the other, but that was all she needed.

A week later, he had to move.

“I thought I had told you,” he said. She was sitting on his couch in the spot where he had first held out his hand to her. She half-listened to him rattle on about his new job and responsibilities in a rote kind of way that made her think he must have told quite a few other people already.

As he talked, her mind wandered back through their time together, along her journey of orgasms. He had made her feel so amazing that first night and so many nights since then. He had given her a wonderful gift. He had introduced her to parts of herself she hadn’t known.

She knew now, though, especially in the time since that night in the restaurant ladies room. It was such a little thing, inviting him to join her there, but it had flipped a switch in her head. That night, she realized that she wasn’t a passive part of this amazing sex. She was an active player. Her orgasm journey had just begun.

She stood up in front of him and held out her hand. He took it, looking at her quizzically.

Smiling, she led him up the stairs.

copyright 2008-2011, www.sexyprime.typepad.com; PARTIAL reposts only permitted with link back to original article on SexyPrime

September 27, 2011

“You are helping me deal with losing my father. I am having so much trouble letting him go though I know he has accepted his diagnosis. He and my mother were very young when they had me; and he walked away. I didn’t know who my father was until I was sixteen. We didn’t get to know each other until a few years ago when I graduated college. Like you, he was recently diagnosed with advanced non-Hodgkin lymphoma and has months to live. I want to have him longer now that we have finally connected. This seems so unfair—but you are helping me deal with it. Thank you,” LeAnne.

LeAnne, we share another bond. I was forty when my mother told me, “Your father isn’t your father.”

I didn’t think much about my biological father until I was diagnosed with cancer. Then I wondered: Did members of my other genetic family die of cancer, specifically non-Hodgkin lymphoma? Would knowing that have helped me? Who was my biological father in DNA terms?

Since Mama was 41 when she gave birth to me, I didn’t have a chance to find the birth father; and I thought it didn’t matter anyway. Daddy had always been my father. He took me to the library on Saturday mornings; indoctrinated me into the religion of St. Louis, devotion to the baseball Cardinals; never refused to drive me and my friends where we wanted to go; told me, “You don’t have to go through with this,” in a church vestibule before he walked me down the aisle; and most important of all, said—

“Susie can do anything she sets her mind to do.”

Do you know how much that means to a daughter?

I learned that he came to the hospital after I was born and put his name on my birth certificate so I wouldn’t be a bastard nor my mother a wanton woman. They’d been divorced, no sex with the ex, for six months before I was conceived. Yet he took responsibility for me and won her back. They re-married when I was six months old. My grown sisters kept mother’s secret until she spilled it. Lucky for Mama that I look just like her.

When I asked Mama at 81 who he was, she said, It’s none of your business.

It was my business after all. Too late I realized that.

When I am not writing and spending time with people I love, I am sorting out what matters from what doesn’t; and most of it is very easily put in one big box or the other. Knowing that I’m dying has given me clarity of vision and I see the little people—and I am not speaking in the Marie Antoinette sense of the phrase—for who they really are. Think how much time we all waste in caring about the machinations of little grudgers and haters, in trying to impress posers and pretenders, the superficial, supercilious and shallow—time that could/should have been spent with family and the few real friends any of us ever have, in trips to Paris and movies in the middle of the day, and shopping for sexy heels, in having incredible sex.

I watch that lost time whizzing backward in the rear view mirror where objects are no longer larger than they appear. They are, in fact, smaller than I imagined—Tiny blips. Whirling lights from mini carnival rides. The shine of wet pavement in the rain. Ultimately, fog, I’m guessing. Nothing.

Visiting this week with my nephew and his family in southern Illinois, I see them and simultaneously me when I lived back here, raising a son. So much energy expended on family squabbles, gossip, aimless ambition, fruitless connections, dinners and drinks with idiots. What remains when I burn all that away?

The memories of wrapping presents and sipping hot chocolate on Christmas Eve with my sister Jenny and the nieces—I was an aunt at age five—waiting for Mama to return from her last minute shopping trip to the St. Louis department stores; a bowl of apples on my kitchen counter, the October sun shining through the sliding glass door and bouncing off their polished red skins, my son and a playmate coloring at the old oak table I’d refinished in the garage with a little help from my friends; Mama’s cloud of soft pure wide hair floating regally around her head in her last spring, a bowl of lilacs Ellen had picked at her bedside; the first time I received cunnilingus from a man who knew what he was doing—on a worn chenille bedspread at a Howard Johnson’s Hotel; the big erect black penis that dick-matized me just a few years ago in a sleek Harlem co-op—so many things I can see and smell and taste and hear and touch, memories that I didn’t realize at the time would stay so vividly in my mind.

The things I didn’t know and can’t remember taunt me now. Should I have asked more questions? Looked harder for the truths? Mama and Daddy, my sisters, a niece, all gone, took secrets with them, secrets and lies. Did I always think there was time until there wasn’t anymore?

My nephew’s wife found my oldest sister’s birth certificate after her death and said, “Your mother had another child, a ‘live birth’, before Ellen. Did you know that?”

No, I did not. She and Daddy were married thirteen months before Ellen was born. Do the math.

In my extended family, some lucky winner of the Hidden DNA Sweepstakes seems to discover every decade, Your Mama’s not your Mama or your Daddy’s not your Daddy. (Lately we learned a Great-Great Grammy was a mulatto slave. That explains the portraits of dead relatives who looked vaguely Sicilian.) The secrets and lies are all about sex. Keeping those secrets and hiding the lies leaves collateral damage. The gay child is an adult, in and out of his revolving closet, confessing, retracting, afraid to “kill” his parents with certainty. The abortions are burdens carried quietly, with stoicism. The affairs and the buried first marriages are terrible secrets the children must never know. (I once shocked my nephew by casually mentioning his father’s first marriage.)

Do I write about sex because in my family only Jenny could talk about it?

My grand-niece, 15 and wearing a purity ring, is talking—and asking questions. She and her best friend filled me in on the high school sex scene: four pregnant sophomores, public make-out sessions and blow jobs, boys who are sweet and boys who are pushy, coercive, even scary. (Teen dating violence has caught the attention of Vice President Joe Biden who is speaking out on “The View.”) A girlfriend had sex; and everyone knew about it within the hour.

In the Bible Belt, sex education is reduced to this primary message: Keep Your Knees Together For Jesus. So many girls don’t plan for sex; being swept away by “love”, i.e., a tide of surging hormones, like being caught up in a tidal wave, seems to be preferable to choosing (or not) to have sex. How is that working out? The U.S. has the highest rates of teen pregnancy in the Western world.

To her credit, my nephew’s wife flies against the wind in her conservative community and talks straight to our girl about sex, including informing her of the STDs spread by unprotected oral sex. We both want her to choose, to become sexual when she is ready, not because she was coerced by some callow youth who will text his friends as he’s pulling away from the curb. We want her to protect her sexual health at all times. When I was ready, I told Jenny who took me to her gynecologist to get the pill—and warned that condoms were also necessary to protect against disease. Because I chose and was prepared, I had an uncommonly good first experience.

I won’t be here when my grand-niece is ready to choose, but I know she will go to her mother; and she will be prepared. I hope her first experience will also be uncommonly good. May her memories of me include shopping for her homecoming dress last weekend and may shel always see my eyes light up as she did her model walk in dress after dress.

*******************************************

People email and call asking how I am doing--and the answer is; well. No major pain yet, though I realize that could change faster than the weather out here. The swollen left arm, lymphodema, is annoying, but now that my lungs are clear, maybe the docs can do something to reduce that.

Some readers say they enjoy reading about Carolyn, Marilyn and Lorraise and Mel. You will hear more about them in the weeks ahead. They are the greatest friends.

And so many ask: What can I do? What do you need? Where can we send cards or little gifts? You can keep writing to me, tell me your stories, send me interesting or amusing links to articles, suggest your favorite books. (sexyprimequiver@gmail.com)

If you want to do something more, please make a donation to St. Jude's Children's Research Hospital. They care for children with cancer; and no child is turned away because the family cannot pay.

September 26, 2011

Often I get a batch of questions on the same topic—all within hours--concerns inspired, perhaps, by something in the news. This past week I heard from many women—and some men—about her “vibe dependency.” That’s a myth; and I will bust it.

When women express concern about “over-using” vibrators, they are often expressing fear of sexual pleasure. We distrust pleasure (especially for women) so much in this Puritanical society that arguments against it, often disguised as concerns about The Relationship, are abundant. Men’s issues with vibrators are rooted in their fear of battery-operated ‘competition.” As I’ve said before, no toy can replace a living, breathing man. The vibe is not your competitor, gentlemen; it is your sex toy too.

To the questions—

Q. “I only reach orgasm in masturbation. For several months, I’ve masturbated with the big Hitachi Magic Wand. Now I can’t orgasm without it. I haven’t been in a relationship in a few years, but recently started seeing a great guy. I am faking orgasms with him. What else can I do?” Alicia, Nebraska.

Without the attachment, it takes me from zero to orgasm in under a minute.

You aren’t addicted to the Wand. Rather you’re in the habit of fast orgasm. You need to expand your vibe collection. One vibe is never enough. First, buy one of the rabbits, like Sexy Bunny, combining internal stimulation with clit-tickling rabbit ears.

Then try one of the designer external vibes, like my new favorite, Minna Ola,. (See my review.) You operate Minna Ola (available only at Babeland) by squeezing her; and she copies the pattern of your squeezing, repeating it for you.

There are so many delicious deluxe vibes in the multi-speed category—many waterproof so you play in the shower. Start on a low, slow speed and enjoy the gradual build-up.

Add vibrators and other sex toys to partner sex. Showing him your new toy is an easy way to introduce the concept of mutual play. Turn it on and put it in his palm as you run through the pleasure modes so he can see what this toy can do. Ask him to use it on you. Keep the interaction playful.

Stop faking! Never tell him that you were. Take what you need to reach orgasm, including cunnilingus and manual play. Claim your pleasure; and you will also delight him.

Q. “My first marriage was to a man; now I am married to a woman. I had the same problem in both marriages. Before we’d paid off the wedding, I’d lost interest in the sex. My wife worries that I am a closet heterosexual, wanting to be with a man. She cries we're in 'lesbian bed death.' What can I do to reassure her—because I really do love her—and also get my mojo back?” C.G., Savannah.

A. I love your question, Babe, because it illustrates a basic truth: Gay, Bi or Heterosexual—we are more alike than different when it comes to long-term relationships. We think we’re falling in love when a new relationship leaves us constantly desirous of the other. That’s not love; it’s lust. Love comes along later, as it has in your marriage.

Nan Wise, creator of The Desire Curve, calls the top of the curve, the height of desire—New Relationship Euphoria (NREU). Created by a potent cocktail of brain chemicals, NREU lifts us from our Desire Set Points (the amount of sex we normally desire when we are not in a new relationship.) After eighteen months to three years, the body has become habituated to the lust drugs—and our desire levels return to their set points. (Read about The Desire Curve in The Sex Bible for Women.)

Some people are so depressed at this slide back to normal that they keep dropping down into the pit of low or no desire. That may have happened to you. So. What can you do to bring your desire level back up, at least to normal? Some ideas--

Just have sex, even if you are not “in the mood.” Arousal often precedes desire in women.

Acknowledge the elephant in the room. Read this Q/A to your lady. Realizing that you are experiencing an entirely normal fall-off should help both of you relax and enjoy one another again.

Cuddle up together and watch “The Kids Are All Right”, one of 2010’s best films, currently playing on cable, starring Julliane Moore and Annette Bening as a midlife lesbian couple struggling with marital issues not unlike yours. Like your question, the movie reminds us that gay, bi or straight, we all face the same relationship challenges. In the end, the women surmounted the obstacles because they love each other deeply.

Q. “My wife has put on 35 pounds in the past year, after losing her job. I’ve tried to get her to exercise with me and, since I do most of the cooking, I plan nutritious low calorie meals. She eats junk food all day and gets up in the night to drink cola. The weight gain is creating health issues for her; and I suspect is a negative factor in her job searching. But the biggest problem to me is the effect it’s having on our sex life. She is ashamed of her body and avoids sex. I am not aroused by her and rarely initiate sex.

“How can I tell her she’s become almost too fat for sex? She’s so sensitive on the subject of her weight,” Arthur, American ex-pat living in Italy.

A. Dear Arthur, if you tell her she is too fat for sex, you may never have sex (with her) again.

Take her in your arms, tenderly hold her and have a frank discussion with her about the weight gain, focusing on the negative health effects and her loss of confidence, in job hunting and in bed. Ask what you can do to help. She may be defensive—or even jump up and run crying out of the room. You have initiated the dialogue on this difficult but important subject. Stand your ground; keep talking to her without lecturing.

I sympathize with your frustration. Frankly, I wouldn’t be interested in sex with a man who has a basketball gut. When one partner gains a lot of weight while the other stays in shape—there often is sexual fall-out. I don’t have the magic bullet solution for you, but I understand. Stay in touch.

copyright 2008-2011, www.sexyprime.typepad.com; PARTIAL reposts only permitted with link back to original article on SexyPrime

September 25, 2011

Michael—M, the AssMaster—says, “Cunnilingus has been my continuing obsession since I first read a compelling piece of cunnilingual erotica at the age of twelve.”

Who better to write SexyPrime’s Ultimate Cunnilingus Guide?

How to pleasure a woman from M—

As a Committed Cunnilinguist, I LOVE pussies. If you don’t love the pussy, how can you be good at providing oral sex?

I love the visual variety, the shapes, the aroma, the taste, and the texture. I love how they are as individual as faces, each with distinct personalities. More than a receptacle for my sexual desires, the pussy is the Gateway to the Goddess—and the single best evidence that there is a god. Treat it with reverence.

With that attitude, you won’t think of cunnilingus as foreplay—or, worse, the necessary “work” you do to get her wet and ready. Focus completely on what you are doing with your lips and tongue and fingers and toys. Pay attention to her reactions. While you are giving head, that is where your head should be.

Every Woman is Different, Every TIME is Different. No matter how successful your oral efforts were in the past, they won’t work every time for every woman. Be prepared to modify your approach based on her reactions. Let her body be your guide. I said BODY, not voice. Verbal instructions from her may be confusing and unhelpful, but the body is ground truth. Pay attention.

ULTIMATE CUNNILINGUS

Slow Down! Many women need a lot of stimulation to reach orgasm.

Less is More. Can you describe the best fellatio you ever received? It wasn’t given by a woman who could suck golf balls through a garden hose. The oral genius licked and teased, building up your anticipation. She may have used strong suction or the deep swallow at points, but she increased your arousal by degrees, employing not only her lips and tongue, but also hair, hands, face, nose, and eyes! Visual teasing through eye contact during fellatio is powerful.

Apply the same style that turned you inside out to pleasing her. Don’t go after her clitoris using your tongue like a belt sander. Lightly lick and tease along her labia, inner thighs, barely inside the vagina. If she is comfortable with this—and many women enjoy it—lick her perineum and anal area. Make her beg you to lick and suck her clitoris.

Add Focused Clitoral Stimulation. When she wants an orgasm, she will want you to focus more intense stimulation on her clit. Experiment with different strokes to find what works for her. Some to try:

Flick the tip of your tongue across the tip of her clitoris.

Alternate running the tip up and down the sides with lightly flicking it across the sides of the glans.

Put your lips around her clitoris and very lightly suck.

Circle the tip of your tongue around her clitoris so that you barely touch it, making her beg for more.

Place two fingers in a V around her clitoris and gently press down as you lick, suck and flick, using the strokes that work for her.

Add Fingers and Toys. Use two fingers to stroke her G-spot while licking and sucking her clitoris. Or add a G-spot vibrator from Babeland.

Add anal toys. Insert a vibrating butt plug (again from Babeland) into her well-lubed anus while continuing to lavish oral attention on her clitoris, labia and perineum.

Extra Tips—

Choose aposition that allows you free use of your hands. Raise her hips with a pillow, or wedge pillow or position her with ass at the edge of the bed/sofa/ottoman/table. Or have her on top riding your face which also gives her more control.

Talk to her. Many women have had negative experiences with cunnilingus. Encourage her to tell you what she wants—and doesn’t want.

copyright 2008-2011, www.sexyprime.typepad.com; PARTIAL reposts only permitted with link back to original article on SexyPrime

“These new comedies add a Judd Apatow crudeness to the feminine perspective. None is quite as raunchy and politically incorrect as male-oriented cable series like “Archer”on FX or “Tosh.0” on Comedy Central, but they are still notably coarser than “30 Rock” or “Parks and Recreation,” with joke after joke about sex and hygiene — the vagina dialogues.”

No doubt the success of the movie “Bridesmaids”—out on DVD this week—will inspire a rash of feature films based on such supposedly fun-loving single women characters. “Bridesmaids” has its genuinely hilarious moments—but the dreck almost brings it down. The dreck factor will increase by multiples in the imitators. The screen will be awash in bodily fluids emitted from every orifice—without the considerable talents of Melissa McCarthy and the rest of the cast to elevate the raunch to the level of comedy.

I live in Manhattan where the weekend presence of young drunk women, their asses barely covered by tiny dresses, wobbling on high heels, every now and then vomiting in public rest rooms, cabs or into gutters, no longer incites comment. I know that women can be just as crude and coarse, i.e. as socially obnoxious, as men—and meaner. Eavesdrop on women across the social strata (or peruse the blogosphere) and you will find out, if you didn’t know already, just how small, petty, vicious and appallingly ignorant mean women can be.

Why do you think there is a plague of mean girls bullying their nicer classmates? Read my review of The Twisted Sisterhood by Kelly Valen on how the brats are spawned.

Is Vicious & Vulgar the territory that women need to claim in the name of equality? I don’t think so.

Dumb vagina jokes will be little noted nor long remembered. Good erotic writing by women, however, will outlive all of us. Erica Jong edited an essay collection, Sugar In My Bowl: Real Women Write About Real Sex (Ecco/Harper Collins) that you must read. The title comes from the blues song popularized by Bessie Smith and later Nina Simone: “A Little Sugar In My Bowl.”

The 28 writers represented are all sex-positive feminists—whether they would describe themselves as such or not, I don’t know. They come from a position of female sexual empowerment. A few pieces are pornographic, some are humorous or poignant, many are sexy—and not a dumb joke in the mix. I would like more pure lust, but maybe there will be a second book.

I love this from Susan Cheever—

“During sex we literally and figuratively expose ourselves. ... It’s scary to do something that lets a person in on so much private information, so many fears and discomforts, but it’s also ruthlessly efficient. ... Sex tells the truth.”

Real sex tells the truth. Only grown-ups (of whatever age) can do that with their bodies. Much of what is passed off to us as sexually provocative material on TV and film is adolescent jerking-off, not a depiction of, or the search for, sexual truth.

copyright 2008-2011, www.sexyprime.typepad.com; PARTIAL reposts only permitted with link back to original article on SexyPrime

September 22, 2011

One of my favorite readers, Lynda Belle, sent me a link to an article that you have to read: "A Phallus Garden In Love Land" (Spiegal Online International). You'll love the photos. In Korea, a land not noted for its sexual freedom, a penis garden grows. Would not the American Bible Belt be a happier place if penis gardens could thrive amongst the churches?

I forwarded the link to my niece and she said: "Is this where you really want your ashes sprinkled?"

Hmmmmmm........

copyright 2008-2011, www.sexyprime.typepad.com; PARTIAL reposts only permitted with link back to original article on SexyPrime

September 21, 2011

Hi everyone! Kimmie will be returning next week with a much-anticipated, two-part finale to her "Dirty Little Secret" series. In the meantime, click here to read one of Kimmie's own favorite stories. Enjoy!

September 20, 2011

I am experiencing stabs of pain under the swollen arm--nothing that Aleve can't handle yet--but I still am who I am.

Someone asked me, "How can you write about sex when that is so over for you?"--and I wanted to whack her hard over the head with my big Hitachi Magic Wand. Or, hmmmmm, ram it buzzing on high down her throat?

Last week, my friends Lorraine and Mel, a very open, sophisticated and understanding couple, took me out to dinner, one of those little Italian places in the Village. We were talking and laughing--and drinking red wine, of course--and attracted the attention of the owner, a handsome man, late forties, maybe fifty. He cruised the room, with a word here and there for the other patrons, but he stopped at our table and talked, openly flirting with me.

Coyly, Lorraine told him I write about sex. He sat down and ordered dessert for the table. Unfortunately, he was on my left. I moved my hand, covered to the fingertips by a long cuff, out of his range, though he tried more than once to clasp it. I flirted outrageously right back at him. It was fun. When we left, he gave me his card with his cell # written on it and said, "Call me, please." (I refused to give him my number.)

"Would you sleep with him if it weren't for...?" Lorraine asked. (I love it that Lorraine and my BFFs Marilyn and Carolyn don't feel constrained by social mores in the questions they ask me; they treat me like me.)

No. He's not my type. But I do love to flirt. That hasn't changed.

What seems to have changed is some other people's attitudes.

The phrase "sexual healing" generally makes me cringe because it largely encompasses the "spiritual" blather spouted by New Age sex gurus who have little knowledge of, or regard for, the science of sexuality--and write off the top of their heads. But, sex is healing, isn't it? As a society, we believe that the ill benefit from plants in their room and interaction with dogs and cats and hugs from strangers and gooey sentiments expressed in word and e-greeting card--but we can't bring ourselves to see them as sexual beings, perhaps in need of a sensual touch. Why is that? Do we believe sex is only "healing" for the well?

If you have missed Laura Linney in "The Big C" (Showtime), now in its second season, seek out the series. She plays a woman who was rather stuffy and conventional until she was diagnosed with fourth stage melanoma--and turned into a free spirit. She is sexier now. In one episode, she catches her husband masturbating to a lingerie catalogue, is turned on--and has good sex with him.

Inspired by "The Big C," an article on sexual healing on cancerwise, the MD Anderson Cancer Center website, is definitely worth reading.

But I want to know what my colleagues have to say on the subject, especially the wise and learned Pamela Madsen, author of one of my all-time favorite books about sexuality: Shameless: how I ditched the diet, got naked, found true pleasure and somehow got home in time to cook dinner. (Read my Shameless review for inspiration.)

I feel desire. I have erotic dreams. I admire beautiful men. Yes, I masturbate too.

Send me your stories about desire and the bad diagnosis. I want to know if you have (or not) shut down that part of yourself--and if your former and fond lovers and occasional Friend with Benefits reacted as mine have done. Their Silence speaks volumes. One of them did say I can call his assistant if I need anything. How sweet.

My male friends, on the other hand, have been great. One swears he lusts after me, and were it not for the 3,000 miles and his financial situation separating us, would be fulfilling my unfulfilled desires in the posh New York hotel of my choice. I suggest he start a travel/hotel fund on Facebook: The Erotic Make A Wish Foundation.

September 19, 2011

Does anyone else wonder why some European countries treat old male chauvinist pigs with such tolerance, even respect? Italy's randy 74 year-old Prime Minister, Silvio Berlusconi, refuses to resign though he is mired in sex scandals, including accusations of sex with underage girls. In fact, he brags about having eight women a night--and by "having" surely he means caressing a breast here, a thigh there, not actually performing eight times. Anthony Weiner tweeted his penis and has been replaced by a Republican. On the other hand, Dominque Strauss-Kahn acknowledges "moral error" in pawing a hotel maid in New York City--and seems to be forgiven. Will he be a presidential contender in the next French presidential election?

I am thankful that my male readers, from all over the world, are not like these social relics. The questions this week are all from men, I have often said that SexyPrime's male readers are the best--and they keep proving it.

And thanks to the men and women readers who have written asking what they can do to support me as I am dying. Some jazz musicians sent a car for me Saturday night, took me out to hear music, and lovingly tucked me back into the car at 2 a.m. Now I would love a makeover, hair and make-up, maybe a new outfit. Anyone in the makeover business?

On to the questions, all great--

Q. "My lady has never owned a vibrator--or, at least, that's her story and she's sticking to it. I want to gift her with a vibe. What do you suggest? She's a corker; and I want a toy that will rock her world, as you Americans would say it--or, leave her grinning like a shot fox, a bush expression for silly happy," Alan, Perth, Australia.

A. My favorite Aussie sex toy websites are Femplay and Sexyshop. For a vibe virgin, I recommend an external vibe, one of the high-end multi-speed clitoral vibrators. You can't go wrong with a Lelo spot vibe, available in America too. Does she have young children at home--or a roommate? Many women who don't live alone prefer quiet vibes that are also waterproof because they like to use them in the shower, their window of privacy.

Make your first purchase a powerful, but small and discrete vibrator. After that renders her silly happy, look at the couple's toys and the Rabbits, combining internal stimulation with those rabbit ears tickling her clitoris. My motto: Every woman needs a wardrobe of vibes; and should use one daily to reach orgasm, whether she is in a relationship or not.

My American readers know that they can find anything they want from Babeland. (See some of my recent picks in posts under the category Sex Toys.)

Q. "I've lusted after a woman I know casually since I met her a year ago. I finally got her into bed; and the sex was bad. How do I get her back for a re-do so I can prove my prowess to her?" Jake, L.A.

A. I've had this question before--from women and men. My first thought was: Why do you want a re-do if the sex was bad?

On further investigation, I discovered that the "bad" sex often involved two people who hooked up while drunk or drinking heavily. A glass of wine relaxes the inhibitions. A bottle of wine deadens the nerve endings--and assures that all your best moves will be sloppily executed. People who claim they had hot sex while drinking to excess are lying.

Sometimes sober lovers have an unsatisfying sexual encounter because one or both are too nervous to perform well--or anticipation leads him to premature ejaculation.

What went wrong in your case? After you've figured it out, invite the lady to an apology lunch or brunch. Chivalrously, take the responsibility for the erotic failure even if, as is most likely, the fault is hers too. Talk frankly about the sexual experience, but don't push for a re-do. Be affectionate and flirt with her. At the end of the safe mid-day date, ask her for a dinner date.

She may refuse even the lunch because the chemistry just isn't there for her. (Maybe not for you either. Are you spurred by desire or the need to prove your "prowess?") Let it go.

Q. "I have known I'm gay since I was a kid; and I'm 38 now. Recently I had a prolonged kissing session with a straight girl friend. I really enjoyed kissing and holding her, but I didn't want to go any further. I'm not one of those gay guys grossed out by female genitalia; I just don't want to go there. But the kissing was great. I keep thinking: I kissed a girl! What's wrong with me?" G, NYC.

A. "I Kissed A Girl," the song that made Katie Perry famous!

There's nothing wrong with you. I once had a close working relationship with a gay friend; and sometimes we made out, no expectations. Many straight women and gay men have had this experience, though they haven't been socially encouraged to share it. (No wonder you feel alone.) We celebrate bisexual women--but are suspicious of gay men who even want to kiss a girl. The phrase for women who kiss a boy, Fag Hag, is definitely pejorative.

That's beginning to change. Two recent studies contradict previous research that told us male bi-sexuality was a "stop on the way to Gaytown," in the popular vernacular. Apparently women aren't the only gender with fluid sexuality. An article in The New York Times, "No Surprise for Bisexual Men--Report Indicates They Exist," by David Tuller, details two recent studies and explains how research protocol affects results. It's an excellent piece--read it!

Again, there's nothing wrong with kissing girls as long as the girls don't have some crazy idea that they can "convert" you to full-on heterosexual behavior. The flip side of that is also true: there's nothing wrong with a straight man who likes kissing boys. (Please note: I am using "girls" and "boys" in the slang vernacular, as terms for adults, not children.)

TOMORROW: Part Three, in Dying: The End Game--What About Sex? (If you missed Part One andTwo, I hope you will read them.)

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